The mob had deteriorated to a rout, with ragged shadows darting hither and yon in belated attempts to escape the caped monster bearing down on them. The sword whistled over their heads, Dillian noted. He could have decapitated dozens of them, but he only frightened them into running. As furious and terrified as she was, she wasn’t at all certain that she wouldn’t have lopped off their heads. But she supposed in the morning she would be grateful for not finding the lawn dotted with headless bodies.
Behind her, the servants had begun gathering again, whispering among themselves as they watched with astonishment the sight of the black specter chasing the mob out of sight. She heard their speculation, the whisper of ghosts, but sensible minds prevailed.
Jenkins was all for sending a delegation to invite the chap in. The cook wanted to bake him a cake. The maids simpered in admiration. Dillian was torn between the desire to strangle the bloody marquess for scaring her like that and the equal desire to throw herself into his arms and kiss him all over.
She doubted if she would have the opportunity for either. The caped crusader had disappeared into the shadows of the trees along the road. She didn’t think the reclusive marquess would return to play the conquering hero. With quiet decision, she turned and ushered the household back inside.
“Jenkins, I’ll need to speak with the dog trainer and the grooms. And you’d best assign another man to help Jamie. We have no guarantee that some of them won’t return later,” she said quietly to the stiff butler, who had rearranged his clothing and now waited for instructions while the rest of the staff returned to their rooms, chattering and giggling.
“Yes, Miss Reynolds.” He turned and left her standing alone in the lamp-lit hallway.
The warm wood paneling, the carpeted floors and polished fixtures, all exuded an aura of security and welcome, unlike the monstrosity of Arinmede Manor. Dillian loved this house.
Her mother had recited tales of sliding down the banister as a child, of snow fights on the front lawn, of games of hide-and-seek beneath those very tables she could see scattered down the hall, draped in silk and tapestry. This was the only real home she had ever known, even though she had only lived here off and on these last five years since she had come to Blanche. Still, the attachment was strong, even more so for one who had never thought to have a home of her own. She owed its safety now to the mysterious Marquess of Effingham.
She gave the dog trainer orders to patrol the grounds, arranged for the grooms to take turns standing watch over the stable, made certain everyone had returned safely to their beds. And then she waited.
Dillian didn’t bother undressing. She pulled back the draperies in her room, lit a lamp in the window, and opened the casement. She couldn’t make the invitation any plainer.
Propriety had no place in what she felt right now. She owed the marquess a debt of gratitude and she would repay it, whether he wished it or not. No doubt he preferred returning to his reclusive existence in that crumbling pile of dust that was his home, but Dillian didn’t think she could let him waste away like that.
As she sat there waiting, she debated means of returning the marquess to society. It was quite apparent that he needed Blanche. She had opposed the match from the first, but now she understood the sense of it. The irritating O’Toole had it right. Effingham could take care of Blanche the way she should be taken care of. The marquess would love her as everyone did. And Blanche had a loving nature. She would love any man who would accept her as she was.
The perfection of the match satisfied Dillian, even though she felt a nagging sense of loss at the thought. It would be lonely without Blanche, she supposed, but she would find other interests in time. She would involve herself in village activities. Perhaps she could solve the farmers’ grievances. Maybe she would even fall in love with the vicar. Anything was possible.
The gray light of dawn spread across the horizon before the marquess finally took advantage of her invitation and heaved himself across the windowsill. Dillian thought he looked weary as he closed the casement and leaned against the wall farthest from where she sat. He still wore his cloak, but she could tell he’d crossed his arms across his chest, no doubt glaring at her in disapproval. The single lamp didn’t reach his face, so she couldn’t tell for certain.
“I’ll send down for a hot bath and breakfast,” she murmured when he said nothing. “You must be exhausted.”
“I’m fine. I’m returning to the manor. I saw the light and thought you might need something. You have that letter ready for Lady Blanche?”
“Your horse needs a rest even if you don’t. Where did you find a brilliant mount like that, anyway?” Ignoring his words, Dillian tugged the bell pull to summon a maid.
“Stole him. You have a neighbor with an amazing stable. I’ll return the horse before I leave. Their groom will wonder, but there’s no harm done.” He eased away from the lamp, slipping into the shadowy corner when she pulled the rope. “I’m not staying,” he reminded her.
“You have some pressing business that calls you back?” she asked with a trace of scorn. “I’m certain O’Toole is entertaining Blanche much more successfully than you would. They can wait a few more hours.”
After the excitement of the evening, a maid was slow in answering, but they could hear the footsteps on the stairs in the early morning silence. Dillian donned a dressing robe and pulled it around her to conceal the fact that she still wore yesterday’s gown. The marquess said nothing. The low rumble of his voice would carry and reveal his presence.
Dillian opened the door just enough to speak to the maid. “Alice, I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour, but I have to leave this morning. Could you have someone draw a bath and bring up some breakfast? Something substantial, if you would. Tea and toast aren’t enough after last night.”
“Of course, miss.” The maid curtsied and hurried to do as ordered without questioning.
“Do you intend to wash my back?” the marquess asked behind her, his tone almost carrying a hint of amusement.
“No, I intend to dress in Blanche’s room while you’re washing. If you’re leaving without resting, I’m going with you.” Dillian opened her wardrobe and removed her riding habit from the interior.
“You’ll do no such damned thing,” he whispered furiously. “I’m sending your lady back here, where she belongs. I don’t need your help to do it.”
“Sending her back here so we can all die in our sleep? How very generous of you.” Unmoved, Dillian opened her dresser, removing the other items needed for her ensemble. She wished she could enjoy the bath she had ordered, but she would make do. Still, she couldn’t help thinking that it would be the last one she would enjoy for some time to come. Baths didn’t come easily in Arinmede Ruin.
“They’ll not dare attack again. Everyone saw you order the servants instead of Lady Blanche. They know she’s not really here. This is the safest place for her now.”
“Fustian. She wouldn’t be back a day before the whole village would know of it. You’ve lived too far from civilization for too long, my lord, not to know that. We’ll only stay until Blanche is well enough to travel. Then we’ll take the first ship to France and be out of your hair.”
The sound of someone on the stairs halted the argument. Dillian gestured for the marquess to hide in her dressing room while she opened the door for the footmen carrying a tub. She would like to see bathing rooms added to the Grange, but that would require money. The trustees still controlled Grange income.
When a maid offered to stay and help her, Dillian shooed her away. The cook sent up a pot of hot coffee and a platter of warm muffins to break the first pangs of hunger. The rest of breakfast would follow later. The marquess would have to bathe quickly.
As soon as the servants departed, Effingham returned. He had shed his cloak and stood in the first rays of dawn in his unbuttoned waist coat, loose trousers, and wilted shirt. Even so, she thought him the most elegant man alive. A shock of black curls fell across his dark brow. His frock coat fit snug
ly to wide shoulders and lean torso, even though he stood slumped and weary, leaning against the wall to observe the proceedings. He was all length, she decided. Long arms, long legs, long everything in between. His clothes clung to him as if molded to his measurements. Blanche deserved a husband as elegant as this one. The scars scarcely mattered.
“I smell coffee.”
Dillian gestured toward the tray. “It’s all yours. Be quick though. They’ll return shortly with breakfast. I told them to put it in my dressing room, but they still might come in and offer to help me dress. They’re extremely efficient.”
He crossed the room and poured a cup of the black brew, taking a healthy swallow without any additives. Dillian grimaced. She detested the bitter taste, but he looked as if he could use it. “I’m sorry I couldn’t figure a way to have your clothes freshened.”
He set the cup down and peeled off his coat. “I’ll survive. Unless you mean to wash my back, you’d better run and hide.”
As the waistcoat joined his frockcoat on the floor, she could see his sweat-soaked shirt plastered to his broad back, and she almost wished she could stay and help him bathe.
That thought sent her fleeing in a panic. She meant the Marquess of Effingham to marry Blanche. She shouldn’t think such thoughts about her cousin’s future husband.
Chapter Eleven
“Have you found that cousin of yours yet?” the Earl of Dismouth inquired as he and the Duke of Anglesey strolled down the steps of the Parliament building to their waiting carriage.
Neville clenched his fingers into fists and declared crossly, “No, but that confounded companion knows where she is, I vow. We should never have banned the rack. Drawing and quartering are too good for her. In the meantime, even my best investigator has disappeared. I’m wondering if there isn’t a conspiracy. Blanche would never pull this kind of stunt on her own.”
The earl stroked his graying side-whiskers. “There might be something to that. Lady Blanche’s father served with Wellington, didn’t he? I heard he had some relationship with the notorious Colonel Whitnell?”
Neville climbed in the carriage without looking back at the earl. “That was all before my time. I was still up at Oxford when my uncle died. What has that to say to anything?”
The earl settled on the seat across from him and crossed his hands complacently on the golden head of his walking stick. “There’s a few rumors going around the foreign ministry about Whitnell. Nothing solid, you realize, but enough to raise questions. He’s said to have held information of vital importance to His Majesty, information that never came to light. I just thought if there were any relationship ...”
Neville waved a careless hand. “That’s too far-fetched for me. My uncle was a pompous old fool. He wouldn’t touch anything less than aboveboard. In any case, what would that have to do with Blanche? She was still in the schoolroom when her father died.”
“Not a thing, I’m sure,” the earl responded equably, leaning back in his seat. “I just thought you mentioned her companion’s name as Reynolds. It may be far-fetched, but Whitnell was said to have married a distant relation of the Reynolds family. I do believe your cousin’s mother came from the same branch?”
And so it was, now that he thought about it. Pulling his hat down to hide his eyes, Neville sank into a black study.
* * * *
Gavin woke to a soft bed and the welcome scents of fresh coffee. It took a moment to overcome the sensual pleasure of enveloping feathers and a cool dusk breeze drifting through the windows. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt such comfort. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept the day away.
Hell. Slept the day away. What had the damned woman done, drugged his coffee?
Warily, he opened his eyes a crack to note the familiar tray and pitcher. The coffee aroma wasn’t so pleasant with the prospect of drugs tainting it.
“Oh, good. You’re awake. I’ve been having difficulty explaining why no one could come in and freshen the room after I roused everyone from their beds with plans for an early journey. They think I’m ill.”
Gavin groaned and returned his head to the pillow. Gazing upward, he could see a bouquet of bright flowers embroidered on the underside of the canopy. He didn’t know one flower from another, but this seemed a colorful assortment. It suited the little gamine. She ought to wear scarlet and emerald and sapphire. Fire colors.
His mind wandered. It had to be drugs. He dared a sideways look. The wretched elf sat composedly in a chair by the cold fireplace, some respectable-looking tome in her hands. She wore the riding gown she had taken out earlier in the day. He remembered she had pulled her hair back tightly earlier also, but it had escaped its pins now. A thick dark strand curled in front of one ear, and wisps hung about her neck. He fought back a grin at the sight. She looked about eight years old.
“I don’t think I dare risk the coffee,” he mused aloud. “I remember bathing. Do I dare hope I dressed again afterward?”
She blushed. A woman who could blush. How amazing. He truly hadn’t gone about much in society these last years. He couldn’t remember blushing women. He just remembered screams and horrified looks and heads turning away.
But this one gazed upon him fearlessly. He rather admired that, although he had to wonder about the motive behind it. He had embarrassed her unnecessarily. He could feel his shirt and trousers now, remembered lying down, waiting for her return. He’d enjoyed a bountiful breakfast, too, but his stomach felt empty again. He’d spent too many years going hungry to appreciate the feeling now.
As if she read his thoughts, she rose to the bell pull. “I’ll have them send up some dinner. Would you like something besides the coffee, then?”
He didn’t know why she had decided to use patience with him. She’d obviously spent the entire day guarding him against invasion. He’d just accused her of poisoning his coffee and embarrassed her with the notion of his nakedness, and she still stood there patiently awaiting his orders.
His orders. Of course. She thought of him as a bloody marquess, and she was naught but a lowly employee. He’d never get used to this British class system. Frowning enough to make her flinch, Gavin sat up.
“Coffee is fine. I have to leave. Has anyone made inquiries about last night?”
“The squire was here. He apologized and said he’d called for militia, but none arrived in time. They’re patrolling the village square right now. It’s not a healthy situation, but I’m not in a position to do much about it. As far as I’m aware, Blanche’s tenants are treated fairly.”
Gavin rose and started shoving his shirt back in his trouser front before he realized he did so in the presence of a lady. He cursed his bachelor habits and turned his back to adjust himself more discreetly. “A mob follows where it’s led. The rabble-rouser in town practically ordered them out here. I doubt if your tenants had any say in the matter.”
“That is not reassuring. You are saying someone sent them out here to burn us out. And you meant to leave us here on our own?”
He wanted to tell her it wasn’t his problem. He had more problems than he could deal with on his own. But she got so rosy-cheeked in her outrage that she diverted his wits. He welcomed any diversions at all.
“As I told you before, they’ll not try that tactic again. You have enough safeguards in place now that you shouldn’t have to worry. Why doesn’t your Lady Blanche simply tell her noble duke that she’ll marry him come October and pacify him for a while?”
Gavin could hear the maid coming. He wondered what his nemesis would do if he refused to hide. The possibility that his dinner might end up all over the floor when the maid caught sight of him settled the matter quickly. He slipped through the open door of her dressing room as Miss Whitnell let the maid in.
The cook here wasn’t as good as his Matilda, but the tantalizing aromas of roast beef and pudding overcame Gavin’s reservations. The lady hadn’t poisoned him so far. He would just make certain she shared the meal with him.
They’d shared other meals together. She had as much appreciation for good food as he did. He remembered young ladies as picking delicately at their meals, striving to make conversation or to flirt and catch his attention. Miss Whitnell had no such foolish notions. She merely ate what was set before her and allowed the conversation to dwindle or spark as it would. He liked that. He didn’t feel any pressure to converse.
But somehow they always found a topic. As he came out of the dressing room and actually remembered to hold a chair out for her, she returned to their earlier one.
“I suppose you are of the opinion that Blanche should give up all that is hers to a man’s care, as if men were any better at taking care of things than women.”
“In my experience, most people don’t take care of what they ought, be they male or female. It would behoove a lady to choose a careful man.” Gavin took his seat and watched her serve him the largest slice of beef. He offered her the little new potatoes dotted with something that smelled enticing. Matilda didn’t make efficient use of herbs. Perhaps he should ask for the recipe.
“That’s an easy thing to say, coming from a recluse like yourself. How is a woman to know if a man is careful until it is too late?”
This was a ridiculous conversation. Snaring a piece of potato, he answered, “By asking his friends, I assume.”
She gave him an irritated glance and didn’t interrupt his meal again. Gavin could almost see the wheels of her brain clicking and turning and smoking as he ate. When he was almost done, he said carefully, “If you’re thinking of following me again, don’t.”
She glanced up at him with an innocent expression that wouldn’t fool a fool. “Of course not. I wouldn’t dream of it.”
As if she had said nothing, he continued. “Your duke has the roads and the house watched. You would lead them directly to Lady Blanche.”
She paled slightly and sipped at her tea. “Then, they’ll know if you return her here. You can’t send her back.”
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